


Jacob and the Angel

by Moonsault, orphan_account



Category: World Wrestling Entertainment
Genre: Hair-pulling, Light Bondage, M/M, Praise Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-13
Updated: 2016-01-13
Packaged: 2018-05-13 17:37:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 838
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5711152
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Moonsault/pseuds/Moonsault, https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean Ambrose isn't good at listening to compliments, but Roman is damn well going to <i>make</i> him listen.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Jacob and the Angel

**Author's Note:**

> A prompt filled a long time ago at the [Wrestling Kink Meme!](http://wrestlingkink.dreamwidth.org/)

"Hey! What'd you do that for?" Roman rubbed at his arm where Dean had slugged him. It hadn't _hurt_ , exactly, but he sure as hell hadn't been expecting it either.

"If you're gonna say stupid crap like that, you deserve it," said Dean.

"Stupid cr--Dean, all I said was that move with the ladder tonight was brilliant!" Roman flopped onto his back and glared up at the ceiling. "Jesus, man, what is wrong with you?"

"I just think that gorgeous mouth can be put to better uses." Roman was used to the many differently nuanced leers of Dean Ambrose, and this was the "I'm covering up for feeling uncomfortable" leer.

"You know, now and then I just like to give you a compliment, you pain in the ass."

"Oh, I can tell how much you wanna compliment me." Dean beckoned at him: _bring it on_. "More, baby, more."

Now _this_ leer was the comfortable one, the one Dean put on when he was on solid ground. That he felt more comfortable with insults and sarcasm made Roman's heart turn over oddly. 

"Okay," Roman said through gritted teeth, "I think you're a fucking genius, actually."

Wariness flickered in Dean's eyes once more and he actually drew away from Roman slightly. "I didn't mean--Cut it out, okay? Just stop it," he muttered.

Some friend had once forwarded Roman a story that claimed that scientists had proven that looking at cute things could paradoxically provoke aggressive, violent reactions in people. He hadn't really understood that feeling until now. "God _damn it_ , Dean," he snarled, and--he wasn't sure how his hands had ended up in Dean's hair, yanking his head back, but there it was. "Will you please _shut up_ for just a little while and let me--just let me--"

"Let you what?" There was a wild look in Dean's eyes that Roman didn't like and found arousing as hell, all at the same time. "Pull my hair out by the roots?"

"You're brilliant, damn it--you're one of the greatest wrestlers of our generation--" Dean's wince could have been due to Roman's grip on his hair, but Roman didn't think so, "--you've got a great sense of strategy and you pull off the most amazing moves--"

Dean kicked him, not gently, and Roman reflexively swung a leg over him, pinning him to the bed. He grabbed Dean's wrists and held them against the pillow, and now he was looming over Dean, holding him down, his voice fierce with urgency:

"The wild heart of the Shield, my brother, dearer and more trusted than my own right hand--" Dean squirmed and Roman tightened his grip, desperately. "You will _listen to me,_ " he said, deep and sharp, and Dean suddenly went limp in his grasp, his breath coming fast and quick. His eyes were closed, his face tilted away from Roman, his neck curved as if he were locked in some terrible submission hold. And who knows, maybe this thing they had--whatever it was--felt like that to him sometimes.

It had always felt more to Roman like an RKO outta nowhere, but Dean was different. Dean was his genius-touched brother, at war with the world and his own soul, and all Roman wanted was to give him a moment's peace, and he didn't know how. He didn't know how.

So he leaned forward, bit kisses into that terrifyingly vulnerable neck, murmured against Dean's skin everything he wanted him to believe: that he was cherished, that he was worthy, with the heart of a warrior and the soul of a mad poet, with hands that could capture lightning or weave applause from thin air. He talked until his voice grew hoarse, and still Dean looked away. Was he even listening? "Would you just--" Roman heard his voice break, "I just want you to care about yourself a little." He laid his head on Dean's chest, half to keep holding him down and half because he couldn't bear to look at him anymore. "Just a little." He could feel Dean's heartbeat, jackrabbit-fast. 

For a long time, there was silence. For some reason, Roman found himself thinking about a story from his Sunday School classes, back when he was a kid: how Jacob had wrestled an angel all night, until the angel had been forced at last to give him his blessing. He wondered if the angel had red hair and eyes like a terrible truth; if he had a voice that seemed to strip you bare and leave you shivering. He wondered if Jacob had been this tired at the end of the night.

Then Dean cleared his throat. "And they say you're no good on the mic." His voice was ironic, wry: but there was something else under it. "Fucking morons, all of 'em." He stroked Roman's hair, threading it through his fingers, and Roman could feel the fervid pulse of his heart slowing down, settling.

"Fucking morons," Dean repeated, and it felt like a benediction, hard-fought and hard-won.


End file.
